An Anonymous Submission

brocade of the soul (a poem in the style of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”)

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, bodies burning like sockets for transcendence, waiting to be plugged into a Nirvana where it is always night
iridescent, beetle bright clubfarers swilling the sea of crowd with heads held high and
stomachs sucked in, pausing to vomit up the white matter of dreams or brains or White Russians, looking in the pools for reflected stars and the thin fragility of their own stork legs in party shoes
dreary solipsists sucking off cigarettes and smearing goose poop kohl beneath their eyes
to express the longing for despair, knowing it is pretty to look wan gaunt stricken with a poverty more than moral
rubbing flavored oil into aching sex-starved seed-stripped teenage skins in the back of
Virgin Records Megastore because the first time should always be that way, sticks ‘n stones ‘n weed ‘n bombs blasting over the loudspeakers
as the equations of the investment bankers on Wall Street all simultaneously conclude
love = hedonism
life’s too short to waste it with responsibility let’s kill those motherfucking jihadists of
the Axis of Evil and have another round of Bacardi on the house
and midnight throwing up of bowels into scum-spattered toilets (kegstand following
vodka following beer) fucking up against the wall in a holy paroxysm of angeltoangel fleshtoflesh and am I crazy or is heaven missing its angels tonight
they are exchanging needles underneath the Brooklyn Bridge because modern medicine
means death of disease, or jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge because the headlights look most beautiful muted in the water
the purity is in the marijuana river that makes the pseudo beat poets, angel-headed
hipsters crouched in the woodwork like cockroaches, stay up to four in the morning with wild typewritten pages for yr own joy wanting to die
they’re not as extreme as they used to be but they still exist although
the glory days are over, it’s cool to be inchoate now but hard to retrograde once you’ve
come, hard to pretend nonconformity when everything conforms, including rebellions without causes, revolutions in the middle class
if James Dean knew he was an icon he’d wish he’d been buried alive, he’d say
“the ‘50s already happened, stop publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull ”
the true rebels live inside the prisons of their own mind, driven to madness by
the post-bomb generation of madness, keening to the refracted sounds of honeyless bees, the combs with their hexagonal cells of sex ‘n drugs ‘n rock ‘n roll and blissful unconsciousness within which yesterdays last till tomorrows in slippery reality-induced hazes reclining on a couch spotted with last night’s cum and beer and abandoned panties in the deepest recesses of the mind
and am I crazy or are the angels missing their heaven tonight, the best minds of our
generation cowering abject in the valley of the shadow of the porcelain bowl where one must lose his lunch dinner breakfast too in the sweet outpouring of concrete regret and last week’s beer and the bilious desire to remember last week’s beer
and am I crazy or is heaven missing its angels tonight, the last of the hipsters in their
primal squalid dens seeking the starlight beneath the gray of pretended shared dreams & Buñuel films in a language they don’t speak, loving the way it sounds to say I have been to Hell and back
and am I crazy, I often wonder whether it is better to walk the middle line or not to walk
at all, it’s enough to make anyone want to jump, screaming out benedictions silently for only the pope of the private mind to hear;
blacks & whites can fuck each other now, but not in commercials or on the News;
so what you think you heard last night through the walls is irrelevant
it is no more real than the slow saccharine drip of time through the knobbed vertebrae of
the spine and the knotted ache of the genitals, feeling every moment as though it were an eternity, thinking only its unbearable to be here, rather be anywhere but here
everyone nowadays is uncomfortable in their own skin, soft skin that’s been ripped in
beaks, teeth and sex and hot gums pressed against seminal fires
and all the children left behind can all fuck themselves, right, the pregnant teenage girls named
after Christian virtues who dye their hair with red Kool Aid
reciting “I’m no more your mother than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own
slow effacement at the wind’s hand”
yearning to have a flat stomach again and alcoholic tipsy blood flowing to the beat of the
moon
and am I crazy or is heaven missing one of its angels tonight, did she jump (still chaste)
from the window, floating down like a shift loosed on wind
or did she come down like bra thong boxers torn off frenzied at the top of the building so
that they could fall to their death fucking
(but on TV they only showed the clothes and the bloody stain in the shape of a fist and
the words to a Taylor Swift song scrawled beneath the sidewalk)
there’s no place for prudes anymore, even the virgins burn to be cool, write elegies to lovers who
could not bear the heaviness of love because as Ginsberg knew, the weight is too heavy, yes, yes, that’s what I wanted, I always wanted, to return to the body where I was born
and am I crazy or is heaven missing all its angels tonight, how heavy it is to love without
knowing why, well what if
heaven is missing its angels, and in all the world it seems normal (at least, this is the
impression I get from looking in the television set) only to think of cum
cuntbucket cum phallus until it is the new Buddha’s mantra cumcuntbucketcumphallus, cumcuntbucketcumphallus, the whole meeting the part, interior to exterior, folding out the inside of a dissected joint to glitter in the light like the metallic stoned fascination of a gum wrapper
heaven is missing its angels, they are fashion models on asphalt runways wearing gum
wrappers as dresses, stretched over their mountainous breasts and waists pulled in too tight and sewn there
pinched anemic anorexic bulimic dancers with their pink tights hurling into the
vomitoriums of the School of American Ballet, then dragging themselves back for
more food and more vomiting and the conviction to be skinny if it kills, when it kills
and the creamy-skinned girls who party in Brooklyn say they love only black boys but
it’s not true, pulling the chains to flush the toilet so that their nocturnal lovers will not hear their own fingers’ aid to reach that final point, that ecstasy like a lighthouse illuminating waves of solitary cum
and am I crazy or have all the soldiers in Iraq lost their calico camouflage fatigues, clap your hands if you believe in soldiers, the same way heaven has lost its angels and the angels have lost their heaven and there’s no God and everyone is confused
the world must be fucked up if the only lucid ones are the stoners, the only ones who still
pray
genuflecting before some altar from which one cannot draw enough subsistence for life,
that altar, it is life
and ultimately to keep going one must conclude life is holy even if it makes no sense
sometimes
holy is life, even if words and spirits and pictures and numbers meld into a blue mist and
make no sense
holy is the pavement beneath the tromp of a thousand feet traveling to work at 9, and
staggering home from clubs sick into the dawn
and even if the stars are blind, people will keep singing to them and that is holy, that is
sanctified, that is beautiful, and even the alcoholic teenagers vomit in praise of the sky, and even the suicides love wanting to die,
and even the most insincere, self-deluded, masquerading thought is sincere in insincerity,
and it is only in the depths of sober irrepressibility that pretends at intoxication that this wisdom is found
and wisdom is not dreary but holy, as is every light that ever graced the dust-filled gloom
of a warehouse, every sun that ever opened up the surface of the moon with its excoriating eye, even if it doesn’t make sense every wrong step is holy, every footprint left in concrete, every falsity promulgated in speech, every politician’s stock gesture, every whore’s mascara smeared beneath dry eyes, every sentence of a poem that falls with fire and lets you know, though condemned to the inferno, you are alive
and in the silence of retreating glances all thoughts find their meaning, all waters their
stillness, crooning the lyrics to a computer chip, wrapping nails around cabled concrete jungle vines, willowing away in the darkness of inessentialism, brocade of the soul,
America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing America, I’m no more your mother than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow effacement at the wind’s hand America I’m putting my holy disgusted shoulder to the wheel.

Ruby Red

I was angry.
Infuriated.
There was a hot passion burning in the core of my chest, struggling to break free.
His hand grazed her bare thigh as their lips touched.
I looked on, helpless.
Could he not see that I, I was the right one for him?
Did she not know that I wanted him?
Their hands were tightly intertwined, his thumb rubbing her forefinger.
It was not comprehensible to me.
Why?
Why is someone like that with him?
She is my best friend.
Well, used to be best friend.
She could very well blame this little encounter with him on one too many drinks,
Or being under the influence of some type of drug.
But I would know the truth,
Because “best friends” know these things.
She knows I have a jealous streak, and she loves to bring that trait to the surface.
Well, that poor excuse for a girl is done for.
Too many years have been spent in constant competition with her.
Too much time has been consumed hoping that one joyous day,
It would all stop.
The constant fear of not being good enough would disappear, and I would never have to feel inferior again.
So the competition stops now, impish whore, because I’ve won,
And there is no possible way for you to defeat me now.
Ding-dong, the bitch is dead.

Goodbye For Now, My Loves

Happy summer, everybody.

With summer comes the beach, hot hookups, sunburns, and (most importantly) camp. I will be away for two whole months in camp, and in that time I will, unfortunately, not be updating this blog at all.

Let this summer change your life.

Take a road trip.
Fall in love, or lust.
Make new friends.
Live life.

Have an incredible summer, and stay safe.

Undoubtedly yours,
Hayley

Lolita

*Disclaimer: The below poem is an extremely controversial subject. I, in any way, do not support pedophilia. This is merely a short little poem that was inspired by the book, Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov. Creativity comes at odd angles, and this subject matter struck me like lightning. Read at your own risk.






Lolita, Lolita, where have you been?
Enchanting men with your
Charm and grace?
Darling Lolita, how have you been?
Are you still dancing around,
Happy and youthful,
But still oh-so seductive?
Lolita, Lolita, come back to your keeper,
For he yearns for the sweet smell of adolescence.
Your juvenescence is the essence
To keeping him alive and
Satisfied.
Lolita, Lolita, where have you been?

Name In Progress

“Damn”, Ava muttered to herself as she spilled her drink on her new Marc Jacobs dress. Ava Heartwright was at the party of the year, not to mention the party that could determine if she would get the job of her dreams; the co-editor of Vogue. Some of the most revered fashion icons were in attendance at this party, and Ava needed connections. “Ah, Ava! I’m glad you could make it!” Ava looked up from the tragedy that was her dress to see Erin Wheeler floating ethereally towards her. Erin was Ava’s co-worker, also one of her main rivals for co-editor. “Erin! How are you?” Ava said this as she double air kissed Erin, grimacing at her overly strong perfume. “Fine. I think I really have a chance at this job,” Erin said almost menacingly. Of course, Ava being her paranoid self, thought Erin meant, “Back off. This job is mine.”

Ava Heartwright was one of those in between-boyfriends, twenty-something girls who had tried to rebel against her parents by moving to New York City. Everything had been going well: a great job (if not a little too competitive), good friends, and great neighbors, which something almost unheard of in the city. But of course, there was that one itch that she couldn’t scratch; the pebble in her shoe that wouldn’t come out no matter how hard you shook. That pebble was Ben Berman. Ben was Ava’s boyfriend from before she had migrated to the city from New Jersey. Ben was…special…lets put it that way. Not only had they been completely in love, Ava and Ben have had plans to get married since they were 18. After Ava had left Ben in Jersey, still hopelessly in love with her, Ben had become nothing short of a stalker. Leaving Ava voicemails at all hours of the night, singing cheesy 80’s love songs (Wind Beneath My Wings, anyone?) and reciting Shakespearean poems he was reading off the internet, sending her flowers at work, even going so far as to name a star after her. Ben called it romanticism, Ava called it laying down $150 at Bliss for a rejuvenating facial after being woken up at 3 A.M. Ava hadn’t seen Ben for almost three years, yet he was relentless.

“Screw him! Change your number and get a haircut,” exclaimed Stephanie, Ava’s best friend since moving to New York City. “He’s costing you the job of a lifetime, not including the fact that he’s holding you back from any serious relationships.” Stephanie had been dating Mark, the cute boy at the checkout counter at Saks, for the past two years. Ava suspected he would propose to her any time now. “He is not holding me back. I am simply too busy to be in a relationship right now,” Ava retorted. She had to admit it: Ben was stopping Ava from being free. Free to go for the job, free to be happy with a different guy. “Please honey. You spend your nights with me watching re-runs of “Will & Grace” and ordering in Chinese. I don’t think you’re too busy,” Stephanie said jauntily. In fact, that’s what Ava and Stephanie were doing that night. Suddenly, Ava had an idea. “Steph. You’ve cut hair before, right?”

That night, under the influence of life and a few too many gin and tonics, Stephanie cut Ava’s beautiful, long, brown hair, into an Audrey Hepburn-esque pixie cut. “Oh my god. I look…different,” Ava said, obviously in shock. “I’m so sorry! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Here, let me call my stylist. His name is Marco; he’s great. You can get extensions!” Stephanie said this in one, overexcited breath. “No. Don’t touch that phone, Steph. I love it. Thank you,” Ava said confidently.

That day, Ava went to work with a bounce in her step. “Today is the day,” Ava thought to herself. Today was, in fact, the day. On this very day, Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of Vogue would be announcing her new co-editor. As Ava walked to her office with her head high in the air, she almost bumped right into Anna Wintour herself. “Ava. I like the haircut. Very edgy,” Ms. Wintour said approvingly. Ava, reeling, walked into her office. “Anna Wintour just spoke to me. Anna Wintour just spoke to me. Anna freaking Wintour just spoke to me.” All of a sudden, Ava had this feeling in her chest; a feeling of pride, accomplishment. Like she could do anything she put her mind to. Ava picked up her phone and dialed a familiar number. “Ben? Hi, it’s Ava. We need to talk.”

“No! Stop it Ben…. no of course I don’t hate you! I just need to move on. Ben… it’s over. Please don’t call again. I’ll always love you in a way; we just can’t be in a relationship. Goodbye, Ben. Goodbye.” Ava hung up the phone, feeling no remorse. “I’m free,” she realized happily. Abruptly, Ava’s Blackberry dinged. “I wonder who that might be,” Ava thought cautiously, automatically thinking of Ben. She picked up her phone: one new text message from Stephanie. “aves! good luck 2day! hope u get the job!” Ava put down her phone, her heart dropping into her stomach. The meeting where everyone found out who got the coveted position of co-editor was in two minutes. Ava stood in front of her desk, heart racing, mind in utter and complete shock. Finally, she gathered herself. “I can do anything. I’m like the little engine that could. I think I can, I think I can,” Ava thought to herself as she walked to the large conference room, overlooking the busy city street of Broadway and 42nd.

Anna Wintour sat in the front of the conference room; Ava’s co-workers sat admiringly around her. “As you all know, it is time for a new co-editor,” Ms. Wintour started, in a clipped, slightly Americanized British accent. “This person must be powerful. Cutting edge, fashionable; a true leader. You must be willing to squash the person below you under your Mary-Jane Manolos. I have been examining all of you for the last 4 months. In this time I have seen a lot. But the one person who has really stood out has been one girl. That girl is Ava Heartwright. Not only has she been there for every coffee run and late night at the office, but she has also fought nail and tooth for this job. So I congratulate you, Miss Heartwright. Make me proud,” Anna finished with a tight smile. “Thank you so much, Ms. Wintour. I won’t disappoint you,” Ava said coolly. But inside, Ava was freaking out. “AHHH!!! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD. I can’t believe this is happening!!! My parents will be so proud! And Steph… oh Stephanie will be so happy. Ahhhh!!!” She could see Erin in the corner, turning as red as her Yves Saint Laurent lipstick in Rouge Volupte. “You are all free to go,” Anna Wintour said nonchalantly. Ava strided back to her office, feeling on top of the world. She thought joyously, “So Steph was right. All I needed was a little bit of freedom."

To the Birch Wathen Lenox Class of 2014, I Love You.

This is not going to be one of those deep, meaningful poems. Hell, I won’t even use my thesaurus. I’m not writing a poem, either. This is merely a thought.

Oh my god.
Like, oh my god.
This year has been… special, to say the least. I’ve made some new friends, and lost a few. But that’s life, right? There’s been gossip, drama, scandal, etc. You name it, we’ve had it. But, surprisingly, every last one of you has been there for me in one way or another this past year. From something as simple as helping me with the Math homework because I had zoned out (yet again) in class, to being that one waterproof shoulder to cry on, just… LEKUJDSHFNA. I’m sorry for that random burst of lettering, I just don’t know what to say. I guess all there really is to say is thank you, all, so very much. It’s not really over, is it? I keep on waiting for me to wake up from this dream, but it’s not fucking happening, and it’s upsetting the hell out of me. It’s 1:21 AM, the day before Arch Day, and I’m up writing a shitty blog post about how much I love you guys. Like, I don’t even know what my emotions are right now. If I’m happy, sad, regretful… I guess you could call it a mixture of the three. Also, I know I’ve been rather hostile to some of you in the past, so I’d just like to apologize for whatever I’ve done; I am not brave enough to mean anything. And let’s be blunt, here: I am quite the outsider in most situations. I’m weird, to put it gently. Well, I’m not sure if it’s because you’re all so accepting, or if you’ve just grown used to my shenanigans, but thanks for accepting me when I needed acceptance. So, I’ll leave you all with these (extremely cheesy) parting words: We’re always going to meet people, but only a few of those people will really leave a mark in your mind and on your heart. Well, all of you have left quite a deep mark, to be honest.

Always,
Me

Inspiration-Gone, Gone

I am so sorry we have not spoken in a while.
There is a reason for my longtime absence.

I have lost my inspiration.

For some unfathomable reason, I am not seeing the world as golden,
Or even dark anymore.
Life is just a blank grey slate, waiting to be scribbled on by something.
The only problem is, I have no idea what that something might be.
It is an arising in my chest, struggling to burst out.
But for some reason, this emergence will never break free.
There is an urge to scream.
Yell.
Get all the inner emotion out, leaving a completely bare palette,
Ready to be painted with the vibrant colors of my life.

Maybe I need a fiery romance,
To distract me from my otherwise mundane life.
No.
That is not what I need.
Although I am missing love in my life, I cannot afford to be hurt again.
I am too tired, too weary of trying to make something out of nothing.

Perhaps I should read more books.
Sylvia and Jack have always been good friends to me.
But Sylvia,
She is too depressing.
And Jack,
He is not a fabulous influence, to be blunt.

But, perchance, all I require is a bit of time.
Solemn, desolate time.
Stone cold loneliness has worked its magic before,
So who is to say being isolated will not work again?
In spite of the fact that being companionless will only make me more morose than I already am,
I am willing to try anything.

So inspiration,
Please come home.
I miss you more than anything that has ever left me.
My very existence just does not have any meaning without you,
And a life without meaning is no life at all.

Oy Gevalt.

Hellooooo there!
Well, unfortunately, I haven't payed attention for most of the year in school.
I know, smart, right?
And for people as genius as me, the end of the school year is torture because we have, wait for it: FINALS.
*Cue the Jaws theme song*
So, all of a sudden, I'm working my motherfucking ass off trying to learn all the shit I haven't been paying attention to.
Yes, I have a dirty mouth.
And yes, that dirty mouth is part of the reason I'm not prepared for finals (I get sent out of the classroom a lot...).

Actually, funny story.

In History class one day, I called Hitler a "douchebag" with a "piece of crap for a mustache".
The latter phrase got me thrown out of class.

Forgive me, for I digressed.

Long story short, until June 4th, there will be no new blog posts.
I know, I'm pretty torn up about it too.
But there should be an influx of posts coming in around June 4th-5th, so don't you worry your pretty little heads off, my darlings.

Fuck my motherfucking life,
Hayley

P.S. Most of you have probably noticed the site counter. If someone can explain to me how to move it to the bottom of my page, they will be rewarded greatly ;) (if you know what I mean... just kidding).
P.P.S. Also, can somebody please explain to me what a water tower is? I'm still wondering from my last post
P.P.P.S. I don't wanna leave you guys
P.P.P.P.S. Please don't make me study
P.P.P.P.P.S. How is everybody? Post your responses in the comments!
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I had a really good lunch. Like, it was fantastic. What did everyone have for lunch? Give me ideas for my next lunch in the comments :)
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Has anybody ever had sassafras?
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. People think I'm a dog person, but I'm actually a cat person. Don't get me wrong, I love dogs, but I just have cats
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I love you...